


The Scarf Around My Neck Represents Your Arms

by Alexicon



Series: les misérables works [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras gets angry, he knits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scarf Around My Neck Represents Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This came from two nonsense words: "Enjolras rageknitting." I'm not really sure what happened. Not beta-read, so beware.
> 
> [Fanart to go with this story](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com/post/101958276713)
> 
> [More art to go with story!](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com/post/105378025263/more-art-for-my-story-because)

When Enjolras gets angry, he knits. It comes from when he was eight and still had a nanny, when she found him mute with fierce eyes and bruised knuckles again for the fourth time and she shook her head and said that he needed “something to do with your hands, sweetheart, gotta keep those busy so you don’t go off and hurt someone.”

She only taught him basic stitching before she ( _quit— was fired— was forced to leave by the unfortunate coincidence of her and M. Enjolras in the pool together a few times too often for Mme. Enjolras to take peacefully_ ) had to take another job. That’s good enough for his purposes, really; he doesn’t have the patience or the desire to learn anything more complicated. Usually he starts in a fit of frustration, with him muttering angrily and flinging the yarn over the needles with much more energy than is necessary, and calms gradually, his stitching evening out and his shoulders loosening as he falls into that state of mind where your hands are doing something regular and familiar and your brain is in order and therefore more able to solve the problems of the day. As he completes the knitted projects (most commonly scarves) he gives the finished product to the person or business who inspired the majority of the anger behind the knitting, because otherwise his closet and possibly a good part of his bedroom would be a massive pile of the mess that occurs when Enjolras adds anger to yarn.

(There are a number of politicians who never received their scarves because any package sent from an anonymous source is suspicious; but there is also the man on the bus who shouts into his phone at his mother every morning, who was shocked to receive a scarf from the glaring blond man; Courfeyrac, who has two scarves; and Combeferre, who has five potholders in a wide range of colors.)

Grantaire has six lumpy, color-splashed scarves, with another halfway formed in the depths of Enjolras’s battered messenger bag. He has no idea what they mean, or why Enjolras suddenly started shoving knitwear in his face during an argument only to run off and sulk in the corner when the debate took a natural pause.

(The pause was natural because it is natural to pause when the person against whom you’re arguing decides to give you an unprecedented gift as furiously as one possibly can. Grantaire hadn’t even known you _could_ give gifts in an angry manner, but it makes perfect sense that Enjolras would be the one to achieve it.)

Grantaire’s confusion is mostly because Enjolras cannot and will not explain himself and also because he has terrible friends. It’s not their fault, really. Jehan was almost tempted to tell him, but was convinced otherwise by such compelling arguments as “Oh my God, did you see his _face_?” from a giggling Courfeyrac and “Do you really want to be the one to explain Enjolras’s weirdness to Grantaire?” from Feuilly with a quirked brow. The answer was no. Enjolras was difficult to explain even to his very best friends due to his passionate and contrary nature. And, Prouvaire admitted quietly to himself, R’s dumbstruck face had been absolutely _wonderful_.

The first sign of madness, Enjolras thinks, is when he starts keeping a scarf separate from his usual frustrations designated especially for Grantaire and the anger he causes. He keeps two projects with him at all times and finds himself working on Grantaire’s scarf even when he doesn’t need the distraction to stop himself from strangling the man. (He starts out in that calm place, sometimes, and frenzy only comes when he realises that he pulled out the knitting because he was thinking of the cynical man’s arguments again.)

(The next sign of madness is when he starts wondering whether Grantaire would like stripes in his newest scarf. Enjolras catches himself researching how to make neat changes between colors in the middle of the night, translating nonsensical abbreviations into English– and then, when that fails to make any sense, into French– when he should be sleeping (unlikely) or doing the reading for the meeting of Les Amis the next day, which is what he had been doing before wandering off into this rabbit hole of color combinations and stitch variations and he didn’t know, but he was determined this was _all Grantaire’s fault_ –)

Enjolras is harsher than usual at the meeting, and has something of a mental hiccup when he discovers he’s unsure whether to pull out the Grantaire scarf or the general one whilst Combeferre gives his presentation.

He settles on the Grantaire scarf with a cautious feeling, vaguely aware that Grantaire has done _almost_ nothing out of place today (he was drinking less than usual, he’s been trying to cut down lately and Enjolras has marked his progress with the precise observation of the critical son that is produced by an alcoholic mother) and Enjolras is simmering regardless with a frustration that he can attribute to the man in feeling, yet not in reason.

He gets only a row done before a backpack drops next to him, making a heavy clunking sound.

“I guessed that you were the one to make those scarves, but I thought I must have been wrong. I didn’t know you knit,” Grantaire explains, seeing Enjolras’s disgruntled expression as he drops a napkin with a pastry placed carelessly upon it perilously close to the ball of yarn sitting on the table. Enjolras snatches the yarn away and stashes it on his lap, surreptitiously checking to make sure no debris has flaked off the food.

“And why wouldn’t I knit?” he finally replies, swearing to himself that if Grantaire says anything predictably heteronormative, he won’t even respond; he’ll stand up and walk right out of the meeting, believing at last that there is no hope for humanity after all and could he please catch a ride off this planet?

“I didn’t expect you to have any energy to spare from your love of country and all humankind,” is what Grantaire chooses to say, probably saving Les Amis from having to stage an embarrassing rescue from a psychiatric facility after Enjolras has a breakdown in the street and starts babbling about how taking cues from aliens might be the best way for their species to progress. Enjolras stares, not quite sure how to respond.

“I do, obviously,” he says, cursing internally that that was not exactly the wittiest response he could have given. Enjolras almost adds, ‘It’s therapeutic,’ but pride prevents him from admitting he might need anything of the sort, even though Grantaire has probably seen in his anger the desire to take it out physically on something that would _respond_. “Was there something you wanted?” he says instead. “Did you want to continue the discussion about the petition? Or did you only come over to talk about scarves?”

Grantaire barks out a laugh. “There is nothing of the _only_ about those scarves, my dear– what works come from your fair hands!– but I can see that you’re distracted, so I’ll leave you in peace for today.” Enjolras nods sharply, trying to convey gratitude, and knits with a dim awareness of the man still present. He can tell that Grantaire is glancing at his scarf every so often.

The strangest part is when it gets colder and Grantaire starts _wearing_ the scarves. They’re kind of terrible, to be honest; the stitching is loose in parts and ridiculously tight in others, there are obvious holes where Enjolras dropped a stitch and didn’t care to rip anything out in order to fix it, and in two of the scarves, the color changes partway through a row where he ran out of yarn. Grantaire apparently loves them, as he takes to wearing them whenever the weather forecast says it’ll drop below 18 degrees. Enjolras does his best to pretend as though he’s not dying of humiliation every time Grantaire wears the softest one, which is bright red and stands out because the man rarely– if ever– wears warm colors. Grantaire wears that the most often after he witnesses Enjolras’s tortured face at his first glance toward the scarf.

“That’s a lovely color, R,” Prouvaire says hesitantly, eyeing Grantaire’s newest fashion statement. Grantaire’s smile glows.

“Isn’t it?” he replies feelingly, relishing Enjolras’s bright flush.

Enjolras has no idea why he’s so embarrassed. It could have something to do with the fact that some of his friends don’t even know that he knits, or it could be the conversation he overheard two months ago, where Grantaire nearly shouted at poor Lesgle an excuse saying that he couldn’t possibly wear a tie to an event because it was red and red is Enjolras’s color, or perhaps it could even be the ( _distracting_ ) interesting contrast between Grantaire’s dark hair and bright eyes offset by the red scarf.

Enjolras finishes the most recent Grantaire scarf in a mad burst of knitting on the day after movie night, when Grantaire loops his ugliest scarf (the one that has one-third grey and two-thirds rainbow-colored yarn and five holes in it) around Joly’s throat when he starts worrying about the cold.

Courfeyrac nearly cries when he sees Enjolras contemplating over the finished product at the breakfast table the next morning.

“Is that a Doctor Who scarf?” he hollers elatedly, pulling on the end to demonstrate its length. It is much longer than Enjolras’s usual, and he pretends he isn’t blushing when he shouts, “No!”

The colors are all wrong, Enjolras excuses to himself, and the scarf is much shorter than the one he had seen in the episode he had watched. He definitely did not make the scarf in such a way because of a conversation he had heard a few months ago.

(The conversation, roughly paraphrased, had been thus between Eponine and Grantaire:

“Are you trying to create a style or something? Or is this imitation; has someone on one of your favourite shows started wearing ugly scarves?”

“No, although Tom Baker has always been my favourite Doctor. I like them, therefore I will wear them. Fashion does not hold sway over this decision.”

Enjolras had gone home and looked up Tom Baker as the Doctor that very night.)

Combeferre shuffles out of his bedroom, shoving glasses over bleary eyes and squinting at the pair. “You don’t live here,” he tells Courfeyrac.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees happily. “You do, though. In fact, you were the one to give me a key.”

“ _You_ did that?” Enjolras cries, surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought he had been breaking in!”

“It’s sweet that you didn’t call the police on me, then,” Courfeyrac grins, well aware of the fact that Enjolras would never willingly call the police unless one of his friends spontaneously caught fire, and even then he would search out a fire extinguisher first.

“My point was,” Combeferre interrupts their banter wearily, “what are you doing here?”

“Enjolras finished a scarf,” Courfeyrac says, which does not explain his presence at all. “He hasn’t told me who it goes to yet.”

Enjolras’s cheeks are bright red when they turn to him as one. “Well, who’s it for?” Courfeyrac asks encouragingly.

“Nobody,” Enjolras sputters. “Grantaire.”

Combeferre’s eyes brighten and Courfeyrac grins maddeningly. “Well, which is it? Nobody or Grantaire?”

“I said it’s for Grantaire, and it is,” Enjolras states, head high despite the burning flush he can feel on his face.

“ _Is_ it,” Combeferre says, eyeing his blush with a cocked brow. “ _Interesting_.”

“What,” Enjolras says warily. “What’s interesting about that?”

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac replies gleefully, and both of them watch like hawks when Enjolras throws the balled-up scarf at Grantaire’s head later. Grantaire glances at them hesitantly before smiling at Enjolras gratefully, trading the horrendous brown-and-green-speckled one around his neck for the new scarf.

“Thank you,” he says, which is not the first time he’s said those words to Enjolras but they are rare enough that Enjolras is still caught off-guard enough to reply, “You’re welcome,” automatically every time. Grantaire studies the new scarf in mild surprise and glances back at Enjolras with a small smile. “This is very nice,” he tells him, and Enjolras squeaks, then clears his throat.

“Ah.” He very bravely doesn’t run away. “Thanks.”

Enjolras is saved by the boisterous entrance of Bahorel, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre fall over each other laughing at his speedy exit.

“You’ve been knitting me _anger scarves_ ,” Grantaire says, bursting into Enjolras’s bedroom unexpectedly. Enjolras yelps and frantically covers his baby blue sheep-patterned pajama pants with a blanket.

“How did you get in here? There should have been three locked doors in between you and me!”

Grantaire attempts to shrug amiably, but is barely able to move his shoulders because he is wearing as many scarves as could possibly fit around his neck. (It looks to be four, at Enjolras’s best guess.) “I came in through the window,” he explains, or tries to, because–

“We’re on the _third floor_ ,” Enjolras shrieks. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“There’s a tree,” he says. “And a fire escape. Calm down. Also, lock your windows, Jesus. Anyone could get in here.”

“Anyone who is _certifiably insane_ , maybe,” Enjolras says, his voice still embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Whatever.” Grantaire waves his complaint away with a graceful flourish, making the ends of his scarves flutter with the motion. “Anyway. The point. You’re knitting me _anger scarves_. Is this true?”

Enjolras hesitates, glances over at the two scarves barely begun on his desk. “Yes?” he hazards, unsure whether this is a weakness to which he is admitting to someone who might mock him _forever_ for it. “It’s therapeutic,” he finally allows himself to say. “So I don’t strangle you, or get in a fistfight.”

“You would never, ever win,” Grantaire informs him with a grin. “I mean, you’re like 1,7 metres of nothing. I would crush you, my angel, and the world would be devastated.”

(‘My angel’ is Grantaire’s most common mocking endearment for Enjolras, because the cynical man thinks he’s funny. Enjolras is not amused.)

“Shut up,” Enjolras orders automatically, then asks curiously, “How do you know how tall I am?”

“Same way you know my first name, I would guess,” he replies.

Enjolras sits up straight, forgetting the blanket draped over his legs. “You looked at my driving permit?” he cries, shocked. Grantaire gives him an odd look.

“Uh, _no_ ,” he says. “I usually learn information by listening to other people, like normal people do. Did you really learn my name from my driving permit?”

“That’s not important,” Enjolras tells him dismissively, and searches for a distraction. “What was the point of you climbing in here, you madman? You could have called first and I would’ve opened the door for you.”

“Would you have?” Grantaire asks interestedly.

“Of course I would have,” Enjolras says heatedly, glaring at Grantaire as though the force of his glare might convince him of the sincerity of his words. He attempts that trick quite often on Grantaire; unfortunately for the both of them, it never works.

“Hmm,” is Grantaire’s doubtful reply. “But never mind that. I came to ask about your anger scarves. I wanted to make sure Jehan wasn't joking when he told me what they meant.”

“He wasn’t,” Enjolras confirms. “This is all something you could have said in a phone call, you know, or– heaven forbid– a _text_. For what purpose did you decide to risk your life to see me?”

Grantaire shuffles awkwardly, and makes a face at Enjolras when he sees the blond watching incredulously. “No, look, this is just the _cutest_ thing I’ve ever known you to do, and that includes when you were taking pictures with sad kittens to protest against animal abuse. How are you this adorable?”

“I am not _adorable_ ,” Enjolras pronounces with the deepest disgust, and nearly roasts Grantaire with the force of his glare.

Grantaire grins, eyes alight with mischief. “ _Awww_ ,” he gushes, and bounds forward to pinch– actually _pinch_ – Enjolras’s cheek. He flees then, whilst Enjolras is gaping, scarf tails bouncing in the breeze made by his sprint and cackling as though he’s just enacted some horrible plan to take over the world and install caricaturists at the end of each grocery line.

Enjolras shouts after him, trying to get up but stumbling over the blanket entwining his legs. “Use– _Grantaire_! The _door_ , idiot!”

He gets a call from his mother an hour before a meeting of Les Amis the next week and spends the entirety of the meeting practically silent, knitting and tearing back out the same five rows in white-lipped fury. His friends eye him cautiously and hold the meeting mostly without his input.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are used to his ways and know what this behaviour marks, so they come up to him as the meeting part of the evening ends and the people scatter, and they jostle his shoulders some in comfort.

“You know we love you, right?” Courfeyrac asks quietly, and Enjolras does his best to hide the stricken expression on his face, putting his head in his hands when he feels his eyes welling up with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he says wetly, a sob choked in his voice. He clears his throat. “She wants me home for Christmas, and says she’s got into a group to help her quit.”

Courfeyrac nods understandingly, patting his shoulder, but Combeferre, who hasn’t known Enjolras as long, looks confused. “But that’s a good thing, her quitting, isn’t it?”

“It’s the fourth time,” Courfeyrac explains quietly. Combeferre’s expression turns sympathetic. “Ah.” He rubs at Enjolras’s forearm, avoiding the knitting needles skilfully.

“I’m not going home this year,” Enjolras decides abruptly. “I can’t deal with them anymore. I’ll stay here, I can make chicken all right by my own, and whoever else is staying in the city can come over and bring some nice breads or something. It’ll be great.”

Courfeyrac ponders their friends’ plans in his head. “Well, Bahorel is staying, I know, and I think Joly might be too, because apparently his sister’s hosting a family Christmas trip to Canada and you know he can’t travel. Do you want us to put word around about this?”

“No, that’s all right,” Enjolras says, smiling now. “I can make the invitations. I used to do it all the time for my father’s closest friends, after I took calligraphy lessons.”

His two best friends exchange glances, unsure which part of that to address. “Uh,” Combeferre tries. “You’re making invitations?” Enjolras nods, already planning when he’ll have the time to buy the paper and ink from the stationery store.

“We should definitely put word out,” Courfeyrac murmurs, staring at his friend in fascination. “Just as a warning.” Combeferre nods, mute with surprise.

Grantaire shows up first to Enjolras’s ‘nondenominational winter celebration’, as the man inscribed in exquisite Copperplate lettering on the fine paper of the invitation.

“What’s wrong with your face?” is the first thing Enjolras says to him, which is not befitting of the proper host he was taught to be. He doesn’t think Grantaire will mind if he messes that part up horribly, though, thankfully. “Here, give me your coat.”

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire protests. “I’m still freezing! And what do you mean what’s wrong with my face, there’s nothing wrong with my face. My face is lovely.”

“I’ve got blankets, idiot. Take your coat off, it’ll make you colder with that wind having chilled it,” Enjolras replies testily, beckoning with one hand and gesturing to the pile of blankets on the sofa with the other. “And you _shaved_ ,” he adds, spitting the word as though it were a curse word. Grantaire shuffles his coat off obediently and hands it to him, rubbing at his face self-consciously as he heads to the sofa to curl up in a nest of all the blankets.

“Well, yeah,” he says vaguely. “I have to look nice on Christmas. It’s a rule.”

Enjolras stares at him. “The last time I saw you without all of your stubble was at a funeral.” Grantaire winces.

“In my defence, you usually only see me at the end of a day,” he tells Enjolras, who snorts.

“I see you at the end of _my_ day, yes,” says Enjolras dryly. “However, as you usually wake at noon or later, this is not a valid defence on your part.”

“Very well, I concede the point,” Grantaire admits. “I wanted to look nice, is that good enough for you? I can’t believe I’m defending myself to a man who ordered _invitations_ for a friendly nondenominational Christmas party, my God. This is truly surreal.”

“Nondenominational means it’s not just a Christmas party, Grantaire, you know this, we talked about this in the meeting two weeks ago. You said that if we wanted to call it a Christmas party, we might as well, because that’s what everyone’s going to be calling it anyway. Anyway, I didn’t order invitations, I made them. It’s much more personalized that way.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Grantaire informs him. “The invitations are gorgeous, of course, I thought they had to have been professionally done, but _why_ would you make them? No one sends invitations for friendly gatherings, Enjolras. It’s simply uncommon for us common folk.” He grins a little at his silly play on words.

Enjolras blinks at him, reviewing his interactions with his friends for the past few weeks. “Is this why Musichetta laughed at me for three minutes straight when I apologised to her for not knowing whether to include her on Joly’s invitation or Lesgle’s?”

“Yes,” Grantaire sighs, then thinks about it. “Well, that and the fact that your face when you’re embarrassed is one of the most adorable things you can witness outside of puppies falling off pillows. Don’t worry, though, my angel, people do take you seriously most of the time.”

“I am _not_ adorable!” Enjolras cries, and tugs at his curls with a small scream. “I don’t have _time_ to knit right now, I have to watch the soup. Just sit here and be _good_ , please.” Grantaire watches him race back to the kitchen with a small, fond smile on his face and snuggles further into the blanket-nest.

When Joly knocks on the door, he is surprised to find it thrown open by a clean-shaven, frantic R. “What–” he starts to say, but is interrupted by a hissed, “Shhh!” from Grantaire, who points toward the kitchen.

“He’s _singing_ ,” Grantaire whispers reverently. “Listen to this.” He quiets again and Joly notices that not only is Enjolras singing along to the radio, he is also swaying some in time to the music, and–

“Grantaire, are you _recording_ this?” he asks incredulously. He meeps when Grantaire turns fiery eyes to him and settles to listen again in disbelief in order to avoid R’s wrath.

Thankfully, Enjolras stops singing and dancing a few moments later, when the oven beeps, so Joly is free to escape Grantaire’s clutches.

“You are so strange, R,” Joly complains, standing up from his forced crouch.

“Whatever, pretty Joly,” Grantaire waves dismissively. Enjolras looks up from the oven in surprise, catching this exchange.

“Joly!” he says with amiable cheer. “You’re here. I didn’t hear you knock, I’m sorry, or I would have met you at the door.”

“It’s no trouble,” Joly shrugs awkwardly. “Grantaire let me in. Where should I put the cheese?”

“Just in the fridge for now,” Enjolras directs. “I’ll get out a serving tray when more people are here. Do you know who else is coming? Not everyone responded to the invitation.”

Joly smiles desperately. “Ah, yes, the invitation. Right.” Grantaire snorts out a giggle at this and Enjolras holds his head imperiously high.

“I have been informed that perhaps the invitation was not the way to go with this,” Enjolras tells him stiffly, prompting a new flurry of giggles from the blanket-nest’s direction. He closes his eyes in quiet misery. “He is going to mock me forever for this,” Enjolras predicts in a despair-filled tone. Joly snickers and nods in agreement.

“Well, never mind that, Enjolras. You’ll have a bit of a crowd, I’m afraid; Jehan is coming, Eponine is coming and bringing her brother, Bahorel may be dropping in– he mentioned some sort of dessert he’s particularly good at making, I’m not sure what it is– Feuilly gets off at six tonight, so he’ll be by soon after that. I don’t think anyone else is coming?” He glances at Grantaire for confirmation, who shrugs and nods. “Yeah, I think that’s all.”

“That’s…huh.” Enjolras struggling for words is a glorious sight, and Grantaire surreptitiously raises the phone still in his hand to take a quick picture for posterity. “That’s a good amount of people, yes. What do you all do for Christmas usually?”

“I thought it was a nondenominational winter celebration,” teases Joly, who had been very much amused by the very heated debate between Enjolras and Grantaire on a matter about which one wouldn’t think people could be so serious. He receives twin glares from the other two men.

“I don’t tend to do anything different to usual, really,” Grantaire tells Enjolras, electing to ignore the playful comment. Enjolras follows suit, nodding pensively.

“It’s fortunate that I had this idea, then,” he declares. “I can’t believe I’d never thought of it before. I should have started doing this years ago.” He returns to the kitchen with a bounce in his step, humming distractedly as he removes more food from his refrigerator to suit his guest list. Joly and Grantaire gaze after him thoughtfully.

“I don’t suppose we ought to mention that he’s spent every Christmas before this one with his family,” Joly reflects quietly.

“No,” Grantaire agrees. “We definitely shouldn’t. All right, come on, cuddle with me, pretty Joly, we’ll make absolutely certain you don’t catch a cold.”

When Gavroche knocks a stack of books over later, Enjolras nearly cries, so he’s ordered to sit down and relax by everyone else because they can handle getting dinner together between five people, Enjolras, calm yourself. He glances in relief at the electric candles he had bought in fear that someone might trip over them and start a fire and praises himself for his foresight.

“I made hors d’œuvre,” Grantaire says, dropping onto the sofa gently so as not to upset the platter balanced on his hand. “Have some.”

Grantaire’s hors d’œuvre are, Enjolras notes, sliced cucumbers and carrots fanned artfully on the platter with an unfamiliar dip centred between the two. The dip is delicious, which he tells Grantaire appreciatively.

“Thanks,” the pleasantly surprised man replies, and sets the platter down on the coffee table. He adds conspiratorially, “If they want some, they can come get some. I won’t complain to have something to eat.”

“Nor will I,” says Enjolras, already reaching for another bite. Grantaire grins in pride.

The way that Christmas gifts work for Les Amis is everyone chips in whatever money they can spare to a pool, which is divided evenly so that an equivalent gift is bought for each Ami by the others. They go shopping in packs, and there is an informal schedule set a few weeks before Christmas where word is passed around saying for whom they’re shopping today and whoever can come along goes shopping. This cuts down on prices for their rather large group and on time spent looking for gifts. Bahorel had gotten Enjolras kicked out of only one store this year, which was a vast improvement over last year. (No one talks about the shopping trip of two years before, except for the moments when Bahorel argues that they hadn’t been brought up on charges, so it wasn’t even an issue. Enjolras had knitted him a scarf that looked suspiciously like a dog collar and leash after that fiasco. Bahorel loved it.) The gifts are usually exchanged at the meeting of Les Amis that falls closest to Christmas, but because of Enjolras’s party this year, the lion’s share of the gifts had been placed around the Throne.

The Throne is a luxurious red armchair in the living room that had originated from a charity auction and had gained its name because Grantaire loves to bother Enjolras and because it really does look like a throne, everyone (even Enjolras, privately) agrees. It is the most comfortable piece of furniture in the entire flat and can fit three people if said people are comfortable with being very, very close to one another. Enjolras falls asleep in the Throne at least twice every three weeks. It looks even more majestic with presents displayed artfully around its legs.

Dinner is delicious, and Enjolras even consents to try some of the strange dishes Eponine had brought from the restaurant where she works. He is pleasantly surprised by the taste and decides that next time he goes to that restaurant, he should order something that isn’t the basic chicken dish he buys every time. It’s a tight fit around the table in the dining room, made even tighter when Feuilly finally gets there, and everyone has to save their glass from being knocked over by a stray elbow at least twice. Enjolras nearly kicks Gavroche in the face, which is how he discovers that the boy has crawled under the table to get to the hallway– to get to the bathroom, hopefully, although one never knows with him. (Enjolras discovers when he next stands to refill the water glasses that he has somehow been liberated of his shoes. He is torn between reluctant admiration that Gavroche had lifted them right off his feet without him noticing and relief that the boy had left him with his navy-blue-and-snowflake-emblazoned socks, as his feet get cold.)

(Gavroche gives Enjolras an incredulous look when he mentions his thanks for leaving the socks on later; “Your socks are atrocious,” he says, pronouncing the word carefully, as though he’s heard the word before but isn’t quite sure how the syllables fit into his mouth. Gavroche shakes his head and his dreadlocks bounce into his face. “All of them are, I checked. I can’t believe you either have boring socks or some awful novelty things.” Enjolras chooses not to reply, and doesn’t ask when and why the boy might have checked what kind of socks he wears.)

It’s one of the nicest Christmas dinners Enjolras has experienced in his life. Probably the best full stop, he considers, as he can’t think of a better one ever occurring– not even in his childhood, when he still believed that his father was lying when he said that Father Christmas was an invention meant to feed on the folly of the consumerist masses. He hugs everyone at least once on their way to the living room; somehow, they all manage to be shocked by it, despite seeing it happen to their other friends. (This is not a slight on their observational skills. Enjolras does not hug often, but when he does, he hugs with all the force and energy of a hungry boa constrictor. This is understandably surprising to Enjolras’s poor friends, who had not expected a near-death experience due to asphyxiation while passing from the dining room to the living room.) They all return the hug as best they can, though; even Eponine, who is just as sparing with her hugs as Enjolras himself, clings tightly to his shoulders as her breath whooshes near his ear.

Grantaire’s hug is very short. He gives Enjolras one almost-painful squeeze and lets go, burying his hands in the tails of his scarf and smiling at Enjolras brightly. His smile looks a little odd, and Enjolras can’t tell if it’s because of the lack of stubble around it (Grantaire looks very young clean-shaven, which is somewhat amusing as he’s the second-oldest of all of Les Amis) or something else. Enjolras doesn’t have time to ask, as he then has to hug the life out of Prouvaire while Grantaire is retreating. Jehan isn’t wearing shoes either, and Enjolras frowns when he inquires after them. He had been wearing them earlier, Enjolras was sure, because Jehan had stepped on Joly’s feet accidentally (who had thankfully not broken a toe, despite the man’s worries).

“I gave them to Gavroche when he asked,” is the reply. “Didn’t you?”

“Gavroche didn’t _ask_ me!” Enjolras says, mildly insulted. “Why didn’t he ask me? Why did he ask you and then steal mine from me?”

Jehan laughs. “Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say yes. Then, of course, you would have been forewarned, and more cautious of your footwear.”

“Why is he stealing shoes, anyway?” Enjolras asks exasperatedly. “That’s beneath him. He should at least try stealing watches or something.”

“Don’t give him ideas, please,” Jehan requests, whose watch has a charming representation of his favourite plants on the face. “He’s setting them by the fireplace for Father Christmas for us. It’s kind of him; I would have forgotten to do so. It’s been so long since I’ve done that.”

Enjolras tilts his head at the notion. “There isn’t a fireplace in this flat,” he states reasonably, “and he doesn’t believe in Father Christmas. He’s told me that approximately seven times. I’ve been starting to wonder if he’s only telling me that to throw me off and he actually believes after all.”

“No, I know he doesn’t believe,” Jehan agrees. “It’s just nice to have traditions.”

“I don’t understand why people go through all the effort to keep a tradition which is only in place to trick children and to coerce more money out of the people,” Enjolras says, and doesn’t realise that he’s quoting himself from the annual– practically _traditional_ – Christmas argument with his father until Jehan misses his line (which would have been about the hypocrisy and self-delusion of the working class) and says instead, “Some traditions are worth it for how it makes you feel, Enjolras.”

It makes Enjolras feel a little sick, and he excuses himself to hide in his room for a minute.

“I was just looking for you,” Grantaire declares, which makes sense, as there is no other discernible reason for the man to throw open Enjolras’s door and stride in confidently.

“You’ve found me,” Enjolras assures him. “Congratulations. Please go back to the party.”

“It’s no party without you, my angel,” gushes Grantaire, batting his eyes wildly. Enjolras scoffs. “No, really, there’s no need to lurk in your room, we’ll have enough room even with your radiant ego taking up space, I swear to you.”

“Be serious,” Enjolras groans, as Grantaire bounces on the balls of his feet.

“I am fairly certain that there is actually a law that you cannot be serious on Christmas,” Grantaire replies. Enjolras rolls his eyes and tries to hide a smile.

“There are a lot of rules about Christmas that are very difficult for you, aren’t there?” When Grantaire looks confused, he prompts, “The shaving, and now this?”

“It is hard for me to be so serious all the time,” Grantaire jokes, grinning, which makes Enjolras give him a dirty look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you ridiculous man, I know what you mean. Come on, come out of your tower, princess, your throne awaits.”

Grantaire probably expects him to reply with an anti-monarchial rant; Enjolras can tell by his resigned expression. The blond reviews carefully whether he wants to play up to expectations and discovers that he’d like to surprise Grantaire a little, just to see his reaction.

Enjolras, thus decided, stands with dignity. “The only princess I admire is Leia Organa, Grantaire, and she and I are clearly not the same person,” he says with a perfectly straight face, and walks out on Grantaire’s gaping face.

“You’re my favourite person!” Grantaire shouts after him, which causes most of the room to look at an obviously smug Enjolras in amusement. Gavroche is distracted; he’s creating a row of shoes by the wall under one of the horrible ‘artistic’ pieces Combeferre and Enjolras had been given as housewarming presents by a well-meaning cousin of Combeferre’s. Combeferre had said that they have to wait at least a year before burning them, and Enjolras has the day marked with a cheerful face in orange highlighter on their wall calendar in the kitchen.

The gifts are lovely. Bahorel is given a boxing helmet and gloves in the hopes that he’ll actually use them (which is more likely to happen if he’s guilt-tripped into it); Joly gets three enormous plushies, which consist of a red blood cell plushie, a white blood cell, and a neuron; Grantaire gets a pair of climbing shoes (instead of the bare feet the man usually uses at the rock-climbing gyms) and a new harness; Eponine waxes uncharacteristically poetic about her new espresso machine (which looks to Enjolras more like something out of a science fiction movie than something that should be in your kitchen); Gavroche actually lets his bravado fall enough to hug all of them in thanks for his Xbox; Prouvaire wipes away tears at the used Braille printer bought to help with the blind students in his classes; Feuilly is hard-pressed not to pull out his mp3 player to try out his new high-end headphones; Enjolras immediately puts his new red winter coat on, despite the comfortable temperature in the room which is made even warmer by the bodies resting in it.

Feuilly and Prouvaire (who are taking shifts tomorrow at the Corinth and Musain respectively) leave after chatting for a while, dumping the candies inside their shoes into their pockets and slipping them on, but the rest of the group break into Enjolras’s room to steal all of his many, many blankets which they then use to fashion a blanket nest on the living room floor. Enjolras ends up squeezed into the thinly-blanketed space between the Throne and the sofa and lies there for a few uncomfortable moments before springing up and escaping to the aptly named fire escape.

Having changed into one of the the least embarrassing of his pajama collection, he shivers and longs for the lovely new coat he left in his room. It’s drizzling a little and Enjolras makes a childish face at the sky, which he is thankful no one witnessed.

“You’ll need to sleep eventually,” Grantaire says from behind him. Enjolras manages to keep his startled squeak relatively quiet and whirls around.

“Do you enjoy nearly causing me to have heart attacks?” Enjolras demands. “Because you’re doing a very good job at it.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire preens. He looks more like himself now, with light stubble covering his jaw. “Seriously, though. Sleep. You need it. You get really angry without sleep.”

“I am perfectly charming with or without sleep,” Enjolras grumbles. Grantaire snorts.

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or just not self-aware,” he remarks. “Doesn’t matter. Come on, what’s eating you?”

Enjolras pauses for a moment to adjust to the rather horrifying (purple and many-fanged) monster his mind had conjured in reply to that question and shakes his head to be rid of the image. “I like sleeping on something a little softer than floor covered with a blanket.”

Grantaire studies his face carefully. “Did you know that I’ve personally seen– in real life– you sleeping on concrete no fewer than four times?” he asks casually. Enjolras winces.

“I didn’t know that you had seen that, no,” Enjolras says slowly. “That doesn’t change my preference for beds. It is very uncomfortable to sleep on hard surfaces, and I only do it when I’m about to collapse of sleep exhaustion.”

“You have a point,” R replies, nodding and shrugging nonchalantly. “Let’s go see if we can unearth a blanket in your room that Nos Amis didn’t steal.”

They can’t, and Enjolras is amazed. His friends had somehow managed to find even the throw with a picture of a ridiculously ugly dog on it which he had hidden in a box of old textbooks in his closet.

“That is seriously impressive,” Grantaire says when he surveys the ransacked room. “They took them all, didn’t they?”

Enjolras nods wordlessly and meets Grantaire’s gaze with a befuddled look.

“You have a mental checklist of every blanket you have, don’t you.” Grantaire giggles a trifle hysterically and shakes his head, rubbing his hand over the line of his jaw. “And yet, you still haven’t opened my present to you.”

 _What?_ Enjolras thinks. “What?” he tries out loud.

“My present to you. A gift. For Christmas, or The Nondenominational Holiday, whichever you want.” His words are audibly capitalised, and only fiddling with his watchband keeps Grantaire from making air quotes, Enjolras suspects. “It’s right there.” Grantaire is pointing to a wrapped lump on top of his yarn on his desk and Enjolras dives for it only just gracefully enough to avoid injury on the desk chair. He tears the paper off excitedly and discovers that there is another layer of wrapping paper with a lot more tape than the outer layer had held.

“Whoa, there,” Grantaire laughs delightedly. “Calm down, my angel, it’s not going anywhere.”

Enjolras sneers at him playfully and then pouts down at all the tape, eyeing his scissors worriedly. “I think it might need scissors,” he explains, “but I don’t think I can manage to cut this open without damaging the inside, since I don’t know what’s in there.”

Grantaire sighs and picks up the scissors. “Hand it over,” he directs, which Enjolras does gratefully. “You’re making me unwrap my gift to you, you ridiculous man. I hope you realise what I do for you.”

“I do,” Enjolras says, and changes the subject, uncomfortable with the emotions that are provoked by what was obviously a teasing statement. “Is that a new pet name? ‘You ridiculous man’? You used it earlier, and again just now… Are you doing all right with that wrapping paper?”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” R grits out. “And I think it’s not so much a pet name as a description. Probably written in the directory; Christian Enjolras, a ridiculous man.”

“That’s not my first name,” Enjolras informs him helpfully, amused by the zigzag Grantaire’s cutting into the mess of tape-and-paper.

“Well, no, I know it isn’t,” the man says, “but I don’t actually know your Christian name, being a _polite person_ who _doesn’t_ look at people’s driving permits, so I made one up for you. It’s not very creative, I’ll admit, I could do better. I won’t say Jean, as we know approximately forty people named Jean and I don’t think our group can handle another one. Perhaps Cesario, as in Twelfth Night. Have you seen that?”

“I’ve read it,” Enjolras answers, nodding distractedly. The mess of paper and tape looks somewhat like an eggshell.

“You ought to watch it, every Shakespeare play needs to be seen rather than read. Do you mind your new name?”

“You can call me whatever you like,” Enjolras shrugs, then hastens to add, “You do anyway, after all. I might as well give my permission for you to do so.”

Grantaire smiles widely, sets the scissors down with a heavy clunk, and pushes the edges of the paper off his gift. “Et voilà! Your present!”

It’s a knitted scarf, and Enjolras is more disappointed than he would have thought he would be over a silly Christmas gift. “That’s nice,” he tries, smiling politely. “Thank you.”

R rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You’re such a liar. I know your polite face, you know. Would you be more impressed if I told you I made it?”

“ _Did_ you make it?” Enjolras asks curiously.

“Yes!” Grantaire nearly shouts, throwing his empty hand up dramatically. Enjolras takes another look at the scarf and wants to throw himself on the bed and wail a little. It’s _perfect_. The stitching is tidy, there are no holes, it’s a lovely, rich brown, and although it’s not fancy, it’s the best scarf he’s ever seen.

“Thank you,” he repeats, sincerely this time. He takes the scarf tenderly and gently wraps it around his own neck, smiling softly at Grantaire and relentlessly ignoring how thoroughly idiotic he must look in his pajamas and a scarf.

Grantaire appears to zone out for a moment, staring at Enjolras as the blond’s discomfort skyrockets.

“I do appreciate it,” he tries. “It’ll be very nice to have. I’ll wear it all the time, you know how I get cold.”

“Yes, I do,” Grantaire says in an absent tone.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras finally gives in to the urge to ask.

“I am a brave person,” R mutters determinedly under his breath.

“Pardon?” Enjolras questions, confused.

“Nothing,” Grantaire rushes to get out. “Just, you know, I made that scarf with certain feelings in mind, too.”

Enjolras tilts his head, rubbing his cheek minutely against the soft yarn of the scarf. “Like my anger?”

“Not so like, no,” Grantaire disagrees, making a face. “It’s– well, it’s a different sort of feeling.”

“Like…warmth?” Enjolras hazards, not understanding. Grantaire looks as though he’d like to take the scarf and use it to strangle one of them, Enjolras or R, to get away from this conversation. Enjolras, who feels as though he’s trying to translate from a language where he doesn’t even recognize the alphabet, doesn’t blame him.

“ _No_ , Enjolras. Like _feelings_. _Romantic_ feelings.”

Enjolras forgets every language he knows.

“Auuuggh,” his mouth lets out without his permission.

“Yes,” Grantaire replies, long-suffering. “I knitted you an affection scarf.”

Enjolras gapes.

“You don’t have to look so horrified, you know,” murmurs R peevishly.

“I’m not horrified!” Enjolras squeaks out an octave above his normal tone. Grantaire snorts and rubs at his eyes surreptitiously, huffing out the smallest of sighs. “I’m not– oh, hang it all,” Enjolras says, and leans forward to place a kiss on the other man’s nose. Grantaire blinks at him and looks at his own nose with an absurd expression that only makes Enjolras want to do it again, so he does.

“I am going to take that to mean you have some affectionate feelings in return?” Grantaire checks, his hands clutching tightly at each other.

“I would even say they’re mostly romantic, in fact,” Enjolras tells him, nodding.

“Good,” R breathes, then frowns. “‘Mostly’?”

Enjolras blushes and admits, “Well. Perhaps fully.”

Grantaire gives him the brightest smile Enjolras has ever seen, and his heart melts accordingly. “My feelings for you are fully romantic as well,” Grantaire says, and they both stand there grinning stupidly for a few moments. Enjolras then remembers an interesting turn of phrase he’d heard earlier in this mess of a love confession.

“‘Affection scarves’?” Enjolras repeats with humour.

Grantaire’s ears tinge a bit, but he still manages to say, “‘Love scarves’ sounded a bit naughty, wouldn’t you say?” with the same silly wide grin.

“I think I’ve seen them sold somewhere,” Enjolras remarks dryly, “and it was not at your local yarn and fabric shop, let us say.”

R gasps dramatically. “Has our innocent angel found a store that sells _love scarves_?” Enjolras pokes his arm playfully and leaves his finger there.

“Even if I had, your affection scarf would mean more to me than any of the most well-crafted love scarves.” Grantaire makes a high-pitched, cooing sound, claps a hand to his mouth, and throws his other arm around Enjolras in a tight hug which is painful due to the forearm that ends up pressed into the blond’s mouth.

“ _Ow_ ,” Enjolras protests inaudibly into a mouthful of arm, and manœuvres Grantaire’s limbs to surround him more naturally. Grantaire is very good at hugging, being warm and tall and nice-smelling, and Enjolras wants to stay there forever. “I love you,” Grantaire murmurs into his hair, and Enjolras squirms a little.

“I know,” he says softly, and waits a beat before adding, “I love you, too.” R snickers and buries his face determinedly into Enjolras’s curls.

A while later, when they’re tired of standing, they curl up on the bed together with Enjolras’s new red coat as a blanket. Enjolras can’t stop smiling and he finds himself fervently wishing he’ll make many more ugly scarves for Grantaire. He hopes he never stops knitting Grantaire scarves.

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand and smiles, finally drifting off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com/)!


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